Captivate Me
by Lukais
Summary: Russia and America are kidnapped, and Russia soon has to figure out how to save them both, or if he even wants to save them both, when America loses his memory. RussXUS
1. Chapter 1

So sorry for anyone that was hoping for more from my other story, 'Effort of One'. During the writing of the second chapter, I felt like a horrible, horrible person for hypothetically killing thousands of people, and got depressed, so I stopped writing it. Maybe I'll continue it someday, but for now, I'm going to work on this! A nice, happy, bloody tale of romance and kidnapping! Please enjoy~! RussUs gogogo~!

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A blonde man closed his eyes with a heavy sigh. He reached up and took off his glasses, leaning backwards in his chair and putting a hand over his eyes. His mind buzzed, so full of thought he couldn't focus on any single one...Letting his body begin to relax, he tried to force himself into a well needed sleep, to forget everything for a couple of hours, and let his unconscious mind sort everything out. Alas, slipping into that would-be blissful world of sleep was impossible. In an anxious need to move about, the man stood up and began walking in slow circles around his room, some wider, some narrower. He stared down at his feet, the process a lulling one, consuming the time aimlessly.

"I'm the United States of America, Alfred F. Jones..." he muttered quietly to himself, his tone dull. "Land of the Free...Home of McDonald's, and apple pie..." he told himself, "Pie...Pie sounds kinda good." he sluggishly change his path towards the door.

Outside his room the hall met him like a dark maze, but after groping the wall for the light switch, the maze disappeared and turned into his familiar hallway, with it's blue wallpaper and beige carpeting. America shuffled towards his kitchen, letting his feet drag on the carpet. He starting humming 'Amazing Grace', mumbled the lyrics slightly.

"...That's saved, a wretch, like me...I once was lost...But now, am found, was blind, but now I see," he sang quietly, opening his fridge and taking out a tin of a half eaten pie. Staring at it for a moment, he put it back and took out instead a Styrofoam container with a leftover burrito inside, deciding it sounded much better than pie did...After taking it over to the counter to find a plate to heat it up on, he realized the burrito had gone bad. Staring sadly into the white box, he closed the box and set it on top of his nearly full trashcan...He saluted it before heading back to the fridge to get the pie again. "The hero swoops in to save the pie from the evil food rotting God, preparing to hide each bite in his slim and sexy tummy!" he narrated, more energetic than before.

A hand clasped over his mouth suddenly, America lunged forward, out of shock and an attempt to break free. The assailant yanked him back with surprising force, gripping now one of his arms, America slammed his elbow back into the attacker's stomach, hearing a loud grunt, and the grasp around him loosened just enough America could dash forward a couple steps to distance himself from the attacker. Spinning around with his fists balled in anger, he caught only a momentary glimpse of his accoster.

The sound of metal on skin resonated in America's head, he doubled over, grasping his forehead and taking a few shaky steps backwards...Blood slipped through his fingers, and before he could regain his composure, he was hit across the head once more and he collapsed. His body made a muffled 'thunk' as his body hit the tiled surface, his blood dripping onto the clean tiles.

The assailant tucked away the small gun he'd used to knock out America into his pocket, glad he hadn't had to shoot down the man to get him to 'comply'. He knelt down and turned the unconscious man onto his stomach, taking a short length of thin but sturdy rope, and tying down America's arms. He grabbed America's ankles and dragged him out of the kitchen, and out of his home.

A man with glimmering purple eyes smirked as a gun was pointed to his head.

"You will not kill me. Even if I do not give you whatever you want, you will still need me alive, da?" the gun was lowered slightly, and the purple eyed man's grin widened. "Now, what is it you wan-"

BANG!

The man put a hand over his stomach, feeling his fingers wet with a warm liquid...The smile faded from his face as he collapsed.

America felt himself being shaken lightly, a pair of hands on his shoulders...His head was pounding, he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. His whole body ached, he could feel each pulse of blood go through him. Now, he heard someone calling out, still trying to rouse him.

"A-ahn..." was the only noise that escaped his mouth when he tried to tell whoever was pestering him to back off. After he took a second to realize that croak had been him, he realized how dry his throat was. He decided to force himself awake, thinking maybe he could get some water from whoever had been trying to wake him up. His eyes met purple, he stared into them for a moment before the other looked away, sat up, and stopped looming over him.

"I see they captured _you_ as well," the other man said monotonously. America stared up at him blankly. "I doubt you will know for what reason we were kidnapped? Another political statement? I assume our captors are humans." again, America only stared at him, his confusion growing. Don't tell me he though I was the one who kidnapped him, Russia though, Like I would have any use for such a helpless...His thoughts trailed off. "America, you are looking more stupid than you usually do."

"America...? Is that my name?"

Russia sat hunched over his knees, a hand on his forehead. America had...had forgotten everything. Russia could tell from the blood down the blonde's face and shirt that he'd been hit in the head, or shot. After examining him a little closer, Russia found to exiting wound on America's head, and figured he'd only been hit...Though, hit with rather excessive force. It wasn't like it would kill either of them, neither would a gunshot wound, though such a wound could easily maim their human half. But Russia had never heard of a nation losing their memory. There were plenty of things he'd like to forget...But, to lose their memory would mean to a nation losing their history. And without his history...Was this even America anymore? Or just Alfred?

Russia sighed. He was alone in figuring out how to save them...What could they do? America was useless...Should he just leave him behind? No, he'd never hear the end of it from England if he left America. Maybe he could...No, but what if he...?

Russia stopped and stood up, breathing in slowly. He could handle this. He'd been alone for long enough, he didn't need help, and certainly not help from America. It would be easy to get out of this. All he had to do was stop and sort out his thoughts. This was nothing. Nothing at all! He would be able to get out in a matter of hours, if left to his own devices.

...But with that stupid, whining American? Russia slouched forward. No, no he couldn't get out of here with that guy holding him back. Perhaps it was best if he did leave him...

"Hey, dude, is there any water in here? My throat's killing me," America asked, looking up at Russia. Russia glared at him. They were hostages, the idiot, why would they be given water? "And dude, your coat looks totally disgusting, why're you covered in blood?"

"..You are as well," Russia bit back the 'moron' he wanted to add to it. America looked down at himself, and sure enough he was a trail of blood running down his shirt.

"What happened?" he asked.

"You are really stupid, da? If I knew I would have said so before now," Russia muttered, glancing up at the window near the ceiling, their only light source. A faint light came in from it's round opening...But it was small. Neither him or America would be able to fit more than a head and should out of it, even if they found a way to climb up high enough to reach the window. A grunt interrupted his thoughts.

"You are so not helpful, dude," he muttered, rubbing the back of his head, then moving his hand to scratch at the flaking dry blood around the wound on his forehead. "...Are you still hurt?" he asked, realizing his wound had all but scabbed over and stopped bleeding, though the other man's may not have.

"I am fine. Don't worry your pretty little head, you might give yourself a headache," Russia replied. He felt the glare from America without needing to see it.

"Alright fine! See if I care if you bleed to death!"

Russia turned and met America's glare with an intense stare, and smiled. America's gaze didn't falter, though his pounding head refrained him from getting up and giving the guy a what for.

"Perhaps if you weren't pathetic enough to lose your memory from such a trivial wound you would remember that neither you nor I will die from such a wound," Russia growled. America pondered the thought for a moment.

"Oh...That's cool then!" he laughed happily, his worry now gone, but instantaneously replaced with pain. He clutched his head and leant forward, "Ow, ow, ow, ow..." he hissed to himself, laughing was definitely not a good idea. Russia turned away from him, placing a hand over his stomach. The bullet had gone through cleanly, which was good, but the fact that he'd been shot at all was bad. It took him all his energy be able to stand, though most of the bleeding had stopped. He was light headed, the blood loss ebbing away his strength. Pushing aside his ailments, Russia examined the near empty room. There was a mildewy cardboard box in the corner, but the only thing inside it was an equally mildewy rag.

Russia then remembered something...His scarf was gone. No wonder he'd felt so exposed...Why had they taken that? Did they think he was going to strangle America with it? ..Well, he couldn't say he'd never thought about it...But they _had_ stripped him of near everything. All he had left was his clothes and a small wilting sunflower in his pocket. Looking back at a very dazed America, he now saw his glasses had been taken, which meant his pockets were probably emptied as well. They had nothing to work with...Unless America wanted to eat the sunflower.

A clicking noise at the door alerted the two injured men, it was being unlocked. It was slammed open, a man walked in slowly, with precise steps, and his arms folded behind his back. Russia took a subtle step backwards, hoping it went unnoticed, as he felt the need for the support of the wall to stand, though he stayed as tall as he could.

"Good evening, gentlemen," a scratchy yet slick voice greeted them, deep and composed. "You two were rather pricey to track down, especially you, Mister Braginski."

Russia smiled slightly. "I'm sorry you had to be injured, but I presumed neither of you would come without a strife. I'm sure you'll understand the necessity of all this, of course."

"Actually, we do not. You will explain this to us, da?" Russia asked, retaining that smile of his, silently praying that America didn't speak up and give away that he'd lost his memory...Who knew how this man would react to it.

"Oh. I hope you would be more intelligent. It's really not complicated to figure out, but I suppose I got my hopes up," Russia wrinkled his nose a bit at the insult, deepening his grin and tilting his head slightly. Instead, he focused on the man's accent...It was mixed, for sure. He couldn't place it...The more he thought about it, the more he doubted whatever conclusion he came to. How many languages did that man speak? "If I must explain it to you...I would like you to tell me all about your countries. You see, we searched both your homes, but neither of you had left any sensitive documents lying about., did you?" Neither replied.

America looked at the man, befuddled. Why would he think he has 'sensitive' information? Was he that important? From all he could remember, he lived a perfectly normal, America life. Was he named after his country? That could be the only explanation for what the Braginski guy had called him. Still...That didn't explain why he should have any information about the United States of America.

"Mr. Jones, you've been quiet for a while now. Have you nothing to say to me? No questions?"

"...Jones? Hold on a sec, I thought my name was America," Russia felt his hands grow cold...There went any hope of hiding America's apparent amnesia.

"Mr. Jones, surely you aren't dense enough to not remember your own name?" the man inquired, his voice slightly exasperated. America now held his tongue, trying to connect the dots in his mind and solve the puzzle that was now his life.

Their captor solved the puzzle before America could. An ominous shadow crossed his face as he came to grasp the answer within his palms...

"I see..."

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I appreciate any reviews with corrections or anything~!


	2. Chapter 2

Gosh this chapter is kind of violent...I hope you don't mind~! I might need to bump the rating up, I dunno, I'm not great at rating and such...But I do promise, later in the story, the romance thing'll pick up~! For a chapter or two more, it might be a little bit violent and bloody...Hehe~! Please enjoy!

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America felt his head being yanked forward suddenly, yelping out in a moment of shock, and was thrown face-first into the floor. A foot was placed carefully on top of his skull, so light it might have been just hovering above his hair. When had that man even gotten close to him? America thought, his head aching.

"You should not lie to me," the man cooed, America could nearly feel the smile growing on the man's lips... "Now, please, would you so kindly tell me where you keep your work?" When America didn't answer, the foot began to weigh down on his head. "Don't play this game with me. I will give you one more chance. Where is it?"

"I..." he croaked, then swallowed, trying to wet his throat enough to speak, "I don't know what you're talking about- AHNN!" he was kicked in his face, blood spraying across the concrete floor with the reopening of his wound. America doubled over, gripping his forehead with both his hands, his breath heavy. With every breath he let out, a squeak of pain escaped his mouth. "Y-you bastard! What the hell do you think you're doing?" he yelled, but couldn't look up at the man, blinding by his own blood.

"You were warned," the man said. He stepped forward and wiped the tip of his show on America's shirt, cleaning off the blood that had smeared onto it, the aimed a sharp kick into the American's stomach. He cried out again, tears brimming his eyes...He spluttered out a few coughs, nearly choking on his own spit. "Speak, now." the man demanded.

"He was not lying," Russia said suddenly, the man turned and looked at him, no trace of a smile on either of their faces. "When he woke up, he did not even know his name...His nation, I should say, da?" The man studied Russia's face now, slowly, silence filled the room for all but America's coughing.

"Do not lie to protect him," the man demanded. Russia began to smile once more...

"I would not lie for someone as pathetic as America," Russia assured. The man reached for his pocket now...A gun glinted in his hand, hanging portent at his side.

"Are you willing to take a bullet for him?" the man asked. Now Russia tilted his head...

"I have already taken one. One more hole to keep the first company, da?" Russia giggled...The man smirked and raised his arsenal.

The explosion of the shot resonated loudly, but Russia felt no pain...Had the man only meant to scare him? He asked himself. No...

America groaned, one hand on his forehead now, the other shakily reaching for his upper leg. Russia saw the blood glinting on the floor as it spilled from his leg. America bit his lip, refusing to scream out in pain again. Russia's eyes widened as he realized it was America who had been shot...Why? Why hadn't he been shot instead?

Russia put a hand over his mouth, hiding his shaking lips in vain, his hands were shaking too...

"I will give you half an hour to think about how you've treated me," the man told them, then turned and left the room. The clink of the door locking echoed in Russia's head, he stood in silence now for a long moment.

Sliding against the wall, Russia lowered himself down into a sitting position. He looked over at America, taking in the blood around him, it reduced to a dark brownish glow with the light from the hall now missing. The gun shot wound in his leg darkened his pants to black, his trembling hands trying to squeeze out the pain were slick and wet. Across his head now, Russia could see the faint light reflecting on the wound on his forehead, mixing with the crusted, dry blood on his face. His eyes were closed, his breathing sporadic and laboured. Russia stared on...Should he help? ...No. He did not care about that man. He would survive.

He would live, right? Russia caught his breath as the thought slammed into him. America...His memory was gone, his history had abandoned him. His nationality. It was gone...Was he _really_ America without it? Would he still...Still survive the wounds a human would succumb to, when he had lost his nationhood? Was he still immortal?

Russia felt a sudden dizziness, his mind going blank. A spot in his stomach churned, he felt like he was going to- No, no he did not. He did not care about the well-being of that man. Russia turned his head, staring at the opposite wall.

...He looked back, holding his breath for a moment. He'd help...

"America. You surely have enough energy to beg, da?" he asked.

"Wh-what are you saying...?" America asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"I will save you if you beg me too~!" Russia giggled a bit, peering through clouded eyes at America. America glimpsed through one open eye, his blue eyes foggy with pain, but still with a fighting spirit...

His voice deep and lost, he spoke, "I..will not..." his voice cracked, he coughed again, "Beg..." Russia saw his eye roll and his lids close, looking like a wilting sunflower as his body fell limp.

Russia crawled forward and stopped at America's side...He stared for a few minutes, then finally undid and shrugged off his coat, then took off his shirt. He began tearing the white undershirt into stripes. He pressed a few to America's forehead, hoping to at least slow the bleeding a little, then looked at the gunshot wound on America's leg. Unsure whether he should take off the other man's pants, or just tear a leg off...He decided to take the pants, knowing it'd be difficult to tear the pants without any sort of sharp object. ...He could tear them better once they were off America, he told himself.

Russia pressed a few stripes of his shirt onto the wound, then wrapped a few around the leg, watching them instantly begin to soak through. With a heavy breath, Russia turned his head glanced at the box in the corner of the room...Sadly, the moldy box and rag within it would do nothing but infect America's wound, if not something worse. He noted in his mind that he could possibly use it later. Glancing back to America, he finished wrapping the cloth around his thigh and returned to his head wound. About a third of his now mangled shirt was left...Russia looked at America's face.

"Pathetic..." he whispered to himself, a 'kol' slipping through his lips. After tearing a few more pieces of his shirt off, he used the remainder of his shirt to mop up some of the blood on America's face, getting most of it out of his eyes. Quickly, he wrapped the stripes around America's forehead, them too soaking through quite fast. Russia, relieved to be almost done, took America's pants and yanked at the bloodied leg, eventually managing to tear through the pants, tossing the torn piece to the side and clumsily, to say the least awkwardly, put America's pants back on him.

America really was, as previously stated, a pathetic sight. Russia sat back and looked away from the other man, his head aching...A sudden sting from his abdomen made Russia clasp a hand over his stomach, his own gunshot wound had begun to bleed again. Grimacing, Russia leant over and picked up his coat, pulling it over himself, too exhausted to put it back on. The room was cold, he now noticed, perhaps it was snowing outside...

He had to make a plan. With his growing tiredness, though, he didn't think he'd be able to come up with something before their captor returned...He estimated he'd only have a few more minutes before he was back. Russia covered the bleeding hole in his stomach, trying to block it from his mind as he tried to come up with some sort of idea...

"This is nothing, I have been through so much worse..." Russia thought. He furrowed his brows, why was it so hard now? These were not the worst wounds he'd ever received, nor was this the first time he'd had to bandage someone with potentially fatal wounds. He glared at the wall intensely...And then, his gaze dropped to the mildewy cardboard box, with the equally mildewy rag inside.

The door clicked open, light filled the room once more, yellow and bright. As the captor walked in, he stopped abruptly, one foot mid-step. He looked forward, seeing only one person in the room, the blonde man he'd shot earlier...With a quick sweep of the room, he realized the taller man was-

"Very sorry it had to be this way. We could have had so much playing together!" a childish voice giggled, and the captor tried to scream as a hand reached from behind the door he'd opened, grasping greedily over his mouth, the strength of the other man's grasp nearly crushing his jaw. A muffled screech made it through Russia's fingers before he forced open the man's mouth and rammed the old rag into his captors mouth. The mag nearly retched, but Russia shoved the rag too far down his throat, sure that the man would now suffocate on his own vomit.

Outside the door, Russia should hear running, feet shuffling briskly towards the prison that'd contained him for who knew how many hours, maybe days...With a brief glare down at the man that was seizing on the ground, and dashed out the door, his coat trailing behind him, hanging off his shoulders dangerously.

He didn't look back, not when he heard a man scream at him, not when a bullet sped past his head, not when the wall splintered apart from the shots of an automatic weapon being fired behind him. Instead, he ducked randomly down each hall he could, waiting until he was far enough away from the men who had guns to not see him slip into a room.

When at last he had distanced himself, after descending and ascending many staircases, he slid into a room silently, holding his breath as he leaned against the wall. He heard yelling as the attackers passed the door...He heaved out, lungs burning for oxygen. He breathed quickly, clutching his coat at his neck. His throat singed, but he had to continue. He had to find a way out. He had to do it now. He turned and examined the room, taking in everything his fading mind could. There was a window, small, but, maybe, he could fit through it...How high up was he? No, he didn't care, he'd jumped out of a plain before, this place was nothing. He paced to the window and glared out it. He couldn't have been more than two stories up...Good. There was no snow to catch him, only, it seemed, muddy grass and rock. If he landed right, he'd be uninjured. If he didn't...Well, now wasn't the time to think of that.

The glass window didn't have an opening, it'd have to be broken. Russia swore under his breath as he looked around the room. There was a desk, a half full bookshelf, a door that probably led to a closet. Without thinking, Russia went to the bookshelf and snatched the largest book he could find, and returned to the window. Behind him, he heard voices growing louder...By now, they must have realized they'd been tricked. Russia had little time.

Shattered glass flew from the building, chittering as it hit the soggy ground below. Russia felt his hand burn from fresh cuts on his hand, but ignored it, and grabbed the top of the window, lifting himself to the seal...He met the ground with heavily, ignoring the alarming crunch he'd heard himself make as he landed. Now, he ran.


End file.
